<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>That Old Black Magic by Argyle</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27975330">That Old Black Magic</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle'>Argyle</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Compositions (Vlad and Johnny Get Happy AU) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dracula &amp; Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5 Things, Biting, Blood Drinking, Fluff with Fangs, Gift Giving, Happy Ending, M/M, Monsters in love, Post-Canon Fix-It, Self-Indulgent Twattle, Vampires</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:14:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,100</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27975330</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Dracula gives Jonathan a gift, and a time Jonathan gives one to Dracula.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dracula/Jonathan Harker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Compositions (Vlad and Johnny Get Happy AU) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2103159</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>157</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1897</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Season's greetings! While I love writing and reading holiday-themed fic, I can't quite wrap my head around such a thing for Dracula, so sweet and bloody gift giving shenanigans will have to do. Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>To put it frankly, Dracula <i>is</i> getting sentimental.</p><p>Oh, it's all Johnny's fault—as most things are these days.</p><p>It comes down to the way he fits into Dracula's arms, so neatly, as if he were made for them. It's in the way he still has the wherewithal to fight back, to <i>want</i> to fight back; but so too, how he's really starting to listen—to <i>believe</i> Dracula when he tells him how lovely he is, how fine a companion, a little more with each passing night. </p><p>It's his grateful shiver when Dracula hands him a glass filled to brimming, and his low groan upon drinking it down in one go.</p><p>The scent of blood on his breath.</p><p>The hungry gleam in his eyes when Dracula gets him pinned against the wall which demands, "Ravage me," far more than, "Tear me to shreds."</p><p>That isn't to say there's always much of a difference. Not when Dracula has him all but split in half; is buried to the hilt in him and he's making such exquisite <i>sounds</i>—really losing himself to each cresting, pleasure-pained wave of sensation, like he's never had it like <i>this</i> before.</p><p>Which, of course, he hasn't. Not with anyone; not until Dracula.</p><p>And Dracula knows this.</p><p>Because Dracula knows everything about his young bride.</p><p>Faced with such sublime sincerity, he can't help but dote upon him.</p><p>They're both close to climax when Dracula first bares his throat in offering.</p><p>Johnny whimpers, "Oh God, Vlad, <i>please</i>," and runs his tongue over the cool tract of his preternatural flesh before sinking his fangs into it. The resulting jolt of pain before he begins to drink is <i>delicious</i>.</p><p>"There's my boy," Dracula hisses in welcome, arms circling round Johnny's shoulders to hold him tighter.</p><p>Then he feels the full weight of Johnny's consciousness tumult into the crimson plain of his mindscape, so much stronger, more immediate, than the mental tether which ordinarily connects them—irresistibly sweet, a temptation he need never resist.</p><p>Johnny looks about himself, wide-eyed, wondering, "Where... <i>what</i> is this place?"</p><p>So Dracula goes to him. He shuffles through his years like cards in a deck. Gives Johnny a taste; a sliver of his deepest self. An inkling of his lengthy, storied life, ever shining like a dark star among all the brief ones he's devoured along the way. Just enough to whet the appetite—</p><p>"It's me," Dracula tells him. "Only me, Johnny."</p><p>"I—I never knew—" Johnny gasps, laughing. Astonished and awed in equal measure, but not horrified. Not revolted. No, not now; not his Johnny. And then: damned if he doesn't take all that Dracula has to offer; if he doesn't swallow him down and demand <i>more</i>.</p><p>Dracula gives it to him. What else can he do? He isn't some bloody <i>monster</i>—or not only.</p><p>After, he kisses Johnny's brow, cheeks, lips; tastes himself on Johnny's tongue; grins madly at the thought that he might at long last be known.</p><p>And Johnny—by God, Johnny <i>stays</i>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 1917</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jonathan never expected to fall in love with his murderer.</p><p>And yet, faced with the prospect of an eternity – <i>eternity</i>, the very thought is nearly incomprehensible even now, two decades after he first traveled to Transylvania and there's nary a wrinkle on his face, nor a grey hair grown amongst the gingers, despite being nearly sixty, older than his father was when his heart gave out on him – filled with hate, or one of intellectual stimulation and amity and adventure and, dare he say it, <i>passion</i>, there's only one acceptable answer.</p><p>He tells himself this.</p><p>He knows that surely, <i>surely</i> he must always have some <i>choice</i> in these things—that the rational, human part of his brain still holds the reins of his psyche, rather than the beast in him which is ever aroused by the one that is Vlad.</p><p>By the way Vlad is never less than simply himself, no matter what form he takes.</p><p>By his affectionate smile which hides the sharpness of his teeth; the humor in his gaze that belies the chaos he craves... but <i>not</i> his limitless curiosity for the world.</p><p>By his firm, familiar grip as he whisks Jonathan from his ledger, out to the courtyard—</p><p>His face luminous in the waxing moonlight; pale and smooth, as if wrought from silver. Regal. Jonathan can't help but shiver when he leans in to whisper, "I have something for you, Johnny."</p><p>"What is it?" Jonathan expects to be regaled by Vlad's latest plans; some excursion they must make this very night; every revelry and enticement to be enjoyed.</p><p>At this, Vlad chuckles. He has, perhaps, gleaned the train of thought from Jonathan's mind, and so proceeds to derail it: "It's Walpurgis Night, my dear. There are spirits about. Devils in our midst. Can you feel them?"</p><p>Jonathan nods, despite himself, for there's a prickling at his neck; a spectral chatter in his ears. Should he scan the horizon, he knows he'll spot the telltale blue flames of the dead.</p><p>"Let them bear witness," Vlad says, raising Jonathan's hand to his lips. Then he holds forth the ring – a twin to his own signet, Jonathan realizes, his mouth suddenly going dry – and slides it over his finger. "I always knew, Johnny. You're like me: flesh of my flesh. I would have you as my husband."</p><p>"Vlad—" But Jonathan's surprised whimper is cut short when Vlad pulls him into a kiss, all teeth and tongue, hot and wet. He fists his hands in Vlad's shirt and breathes in his earthy scent, intoxicated.</p><p>Vlad hums approvingly. "I suppose that's a 'yes'?"</p><p>"Yes," Jonathan says, unable to stop himself from shaking—and he'd shook when he proposed to Mina, hadn't he? She held his face in her hands to steady him. But then again, he doesn't want to think about Mina now, not with Vlad so fully dominating his senses. Then: "Yes, yes."</p><p>"<i>Good</i>." Vlad nips at Jonathan's earlobe and growls, "Then let's go enjoy our wedding night, shall we?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 1957</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dracula loves watching Johnny fall apart.</p><p>Whether by blood or beneath his own attentions – or ideally a combination of both, if he's honest – there's naught so wondrous as the look on Johnny's face as his inhibitions melt away, worry slipped free like a snake that's shed its skin.</p><p>He enjoys it so much, in fact, that he's taken a particular interest in learning to anticipate precisely what Johnny wants at any given moment, and then giving it to him.</p><p>This is true every night they share each other's company – which is most of them – and especially this one, for tonight is Johnny's birthday.</p><p><i>Tonight</i>, Johnny turns one hundred years old—</p><p>And he's panting so beautifully, making that noise deep within his throat that's halfway between a growl and a groan; wrenching his hands into the sheets and whining, "<i>Fuck</i>, I can't—"</p><p>But Dracula knows that not only <i>can</i> he, he <i>will</i>, with Dracula's hands on his hips and Dracula's mouth on his cock. He hums contentedly and swallows Johnny into his throat and breathes deeply of his clean scent.</p><p>Then Johnny's hands shift up Dracula's biceps, over his shoulders, to stroke his hair. He's so <i>close</i>. Dracula can feel his orgasm beginning to crest, and so takes heed when he says, "Now. Now, Vlad. <i>Do it</i>," pulling back and pressing his lips to the tender flesh of Johnny's inner thigh before sinking his fangs into him.</p><p>The taste – the <i>ecstasy</i> his blood exudes in that moment – is enough to drag Dracula over his own edge, and they come together, entwined, before collapsing across their bed in a mess of limbs.</p><p>"God, that was fantastic," Johnny laughs happily.</p><p>And Dracula can't argue with this. He gives him another long, appreciative kiss before reaching to the bedside table. "Now... here's something I set aside some time ago," he says, handing over a glass and filling it. "For the right occasion."</p><p>Johnny's nostrils flare, but his voice is light as he asks, "Whose is it?"</p><p>"You tell me."</p><p>Johnny takes a sip, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he swallows. Then he shudders. When he looks up again, his pupils are blown-out, his eyes red and glinting with unshed tears.</p><p>Dracula frowns, surprised, despite himself, by Johnny's reaction to his gift—for this is the blood of one William Gregory Moore, Will to his friends; three score and twelve years old, and another decade or more in the grave already. A man of no particular importance or worth who in another life might have been one of Johnny's compatriots: a lawyer of admirable veracity, loyal husband and father to three sons and six grandchildren – no, make that <i>seven</i>, come May – the very light of a life which ended in Dracula's arms.</p><p>Humble and insignificant and absurdly <i>mortal</i>—</p><p>And Dracula only wanted Johnny to <i>see</i> what things could've been like; what he so nearly settled for, had he never traveled to Transylvania.</p><p>If they'd never met.</p><p>Johnny turns away now. He's folding in on himself, shaking his head and setting the glass down, half-full. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I—I find I haven't much of an appetite."</p><p>"Johnny." Dracula shifts towards him, letting his hand stroke down the pale buttons of his spine before circling round his waist. "Johnny, what's got into you?"</p><p>"Don't you know? Or are you really that obtuse?"</p><p>Dracula stifles the anger welling in his guts. "Explain it to me," he grits out. Then he lets out a breath: "Please."</p><p>Johnny flinches. But then he settles against Dracula's chest, saying softly, "That life—It—it was all I ever <i>wanted</i> when I was alive. I only went to Transylvania because I thought it would increase my standing within the firm... Better my ability to provide for Mina. For the plans we made. The family we were to have.</p><p>"It's the life you <i>robbed</i> me of, Vlad. The <i>memories</i> I might've left behind. Surely you've imbibed enough of humanity to understand that."</p><p>For a long moment, Dracula is silent. Then: "And what of <i>our</i> life, Johnny? Does it mean nothing to you?"</p><p>Johnny sighs. "You know it does."</p><p>"Jonathan Harker: for as long as I live," Dracula tells him, fingers sliding under his chin to make him meet his eye, "you'll never be forgotten."</p><p>"Is that a threat, old man?"</p><p>"Speak for yourself, darling. You're looking remarkably spry for a centenarian." Dracula leans in to kiss his husband's brow, his cheek and jaw. "Now, shall we make ourselves presentable? The bright lights of the West End and a pair of front row tickets to <i>My Fair Lady</i> await."</p><p>Then, sensing Johnny's hesitation: "Ah. Or we could stay in." Dracula's mouth curls in a wicked smile. "Perhaps make another memory or two?"</p><p>"Yes," says Johnny, closing in, "that does sound tolerable."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 1997</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Vlad's autobiography – the three-volume, aptly-titled <i>Dracula</i> – has topped every international bestseller list for five years running.</p><p>It's also put the vampire himself in constant demand.</p><p>From the beginning, it's been a never-ending parade of gala invitations and interviews, audiences with dignitaries and presidents and celebrities, guest appearances, public addresses, and whatever else Vlad's agent is able to talk him into—though this, of course, takes little doing: Vlad <i>adores</i> the attention.</p><p>As does Jonathan, for a time. After a century in the shadows, what a marvel it is to be <i>seen</i>.</p><p>But he longs for the luxury of slipping into a crowd unnoticed, every odd or monstrous thing about him the cause of no interest or concern.</p><p>More: he misses being the subject of a very specific interest and concern; and so too he misses all the quiet moments he's become accustomed to sharing with his husband.</p><p>Hell, he misses his husband, full-stop.</p><p>Their flat is so still, so <i>empty</i> without him, that even the ever-awe-inspiring view of the City it affords serves only to emphasize their distance.</p><p>Jonathan turns up the volume on the television and heads to the temperature-controlled chest which houses their blood stores—each of them a donation supplied by one of Vlad's admirers, an obvious perk of stardom for the simple fact that he and Jonathan no longer have to take victims... Though in Jonathan's heart of hearts, he <i>does</i> yearn to sink his fangs into something with a pulse—</p><p>He shakes himself. God, not <i>that</i> again. It won't do.</p><p>In this shining new era, this reality they've made, there simply isn't room for death.</p><p>And so he tops off his glass and reclaims his spot on the sofa and listens to Vlad describe some Medieval linguistic quirk to Stephen Fry, both of them folded into wingchairs beside a wide, tapestry-flanked hearth.</p><p>Jonathan's seen this one before: he recorded it six months ago.</p><p>He likes the suit Vlad's wearing.</p><p>He likes that the top buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing a smidgeon of chest hair.</p><p>He likes the way he looks straight at the camera a couple of times to give the audience that devil-may-care smile which still, now, to this very day makes Jonathan's stomach twist and knot.</p><p>Can it even be physically possible to feel like <i>this</i> about someone?</p><p>Can he bear to curl up in their shared box with its sandalwood and velvet and plush and internally operated security panel, alone, <i>again</i>?</p><p>Yes. The answer is yes, for as soon as the sun crests the horizon and he's dragged into sleep, he needn't think of anything at all.</p><p>Then: a low mewling sound.</p><p>A long-buried memory skirts through Jonathan's mind – <i>Johnny, there is no baby</i> – and he rises and runs to the den, gasping to find Vlad—</p><p>His jacket folded over the back of the sofa. His sleeves rolled to his elbows. And he's silhouetted in the half-light, seated on the floor, his back to the doorway, and there's that <i>sound</i> again.</p><p>Jonathan pads forward to peer over his shoulder, only to see—</p><p>"A kitten?" he whispers.</p><p>"A <i>stray</i> kitten." Vlad meets Jonathan's eye. "Found her loitering round the Jag three nights in a row, outside the studio. Far be it from me to turn away a fan." He arches a brow. "What d'you say, Johnny? Shall we keep her?"</p><p>Jonathan hesitates. Gently, so gently, he rubs his fingertip beneath the tiny grey jaw. The kitten purrs. Then she nips at him. He laughs, wonderingly, "I've never kept a pet before."</p><p>"There's a first time for everything," Vlad agrees, and smiles.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. 2021</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Well?" asks Johnny. "Do you like it?"</p><p>And there's a slight tremor in his voice, as though he's actually <i>nervous</i>—</p><p>As if Dracula, struck with the reality of once more having a place to call home in Transylvania, isn't at once filled with a kind of deep, wistful wonderment, a sensation that's rather new to him but so too utterly <i>welcome</i>.</p><p>He pulls Johnny into an embrace and murmurs, deep and low, "It's perfect."</p><p>Jonathan laughs, relaxing. "I had as much of the building materials salvaged from the ruins as I could. There's even—Oh! You'll see."</p><p>With that, he takes Dracula's hand and leads him to the cottage's front door, which swings open when Dracula sets his thumbprint to the security panel: a flair of modernity set within the classic construction. The inside is comfortably furnished with a sofa and desk, ample bookshelves lined up in the loft, several choice paintings from their collection, an antler chandelier much like the one that hung in his great hall – though mercifully wired for electricity – and a couple of antique leather chairs set beside the central fireplace.</p><p>Dracula touches the wooden mantle, the cool stone. Knowing it. Finding himself unexpectedly moved, for he thought these things lost to him seventy years ago already, after his castle was demolished by Allied bombs.</p><p>But the gravitational pull of his native soil is familiar.</p><p>The scents are known to him.</p><p>The creak of the tree branches outside, pushed by the winter wind, is as it ever was.</p><p>And the distant howls of wolves – decedents of the noble creatures who'd once called him king – still raise the hairs on the back of his neck, enticing him—</p><p>Beckoning him.</p><p>"What music they make," he whispers, enthralled. How he longs to strip out of his clothes and run though the primordial woods like the beast he is; to breathe in heaving lungfuls of frigid air and revel in all the delights of the long night, Johnny by his side, the snow crunching beneath their feet.</p><p>For the moment, though, he's content with this, here, <i>now</i>.</p><p>They take turns undressing each other. Dracula's jacket and shirt, Johnny's jumper, a button or two torn off between them, then shoes and socks and trousers and the rest.</p><p>There's a plush rug hung over the back of the sofa that Dracula drapes to the floor, kneeling and dragging Johnny along with him. Their mental tether sizzles with shared arousal. And they've no need for words, not as Dracula captures Johnny's mouth and swallows down his moans, pushing a slick finger inside him.</p><p>By the time Johnny straddles him, one hand splayed on Dracula's chest and the other behind him, aligning Dracula's cock and settling down on it, they're both nearly gone already. Dracula shivers and shifts to take his husband in hand, but Johnny pushes him away.</p><p>"No, Vlad," Johnny groans and rocks in the deliberate way that makes Dracula gasp, "I just want to come on your cock."</p><p>Dracula nods and rolls his hips, letting Johnny set the pace for several minutes before he takes a clawed finger to his chest and <i>slices</i>, needing Johnny to taste him, to <i>know</i> what he struggles to put into words but which his blood cannot deny.</p><p>Johnny whimpers, setting his lips to the wound and licking him clean. "Vlad," he hisses, his too-blue eyes going red round the edges. "God Vlad, I love you too."</p><p>After, Dracula holds his husband close and says, softly, "I've felt so <i>old</i>, Johnny. I thought—with the book, I thought that putting my history on display would free me from it. But it's only dragged it up. Even the very worst of it.</p><p>"Being back here—Well. I feel rightly myself in a way I haven't for a long time. And I've you to thank for it, Johnny."</p><p>For a long moment, Johnny studies his face, silently contemplative. Then he says, "You're welcome, Vlad." And, smiling, "Wait until you see the hidden room. It's right beneath us. Our box is ready and waiting."</p><p>Dracula hums. "Hidden room? Do tell."</p><p>"I'd rather <i>show</i> you," Johnny says, though it's a long time before he moves to escape from Dracula's arms.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Say hello @ <a href="https://argyleheir.tumblr.com/">argyleheir.tumblr.com</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>